


Ridiculous the Waste Sad Time

by furorem



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22508698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furorem/pseuds/furorem
Summary: "Why are you avoiding me?” Will asks at the breakfast table.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 174





	Ridiculous the Waste Sad Time

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [Ridiculous the Waste Sad Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25528099) by [Cicilucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicilucky/pseuds/Cicilucky)



> [Chinese translation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25528099)

_The detail of the pattern is movement,  
As in the figure of the ten stairs.  
Desire itself is movement  
Not in itself desirable;  
Love is itself unmoving,  
Only the cause and end of movement,  
Timeless, and undesiring  
Except in the aspect of time  
Caught in the form of limitation  
Between un-being and being._

_Burnt Norton, T.S.Eliot_

I

After the fall, worlds of possibilities present themselves. Will has spent years, eons, no time at all trying to rearrange the compartments of his mind to fit in, be normal. Now that he has survived the worst and best thing happening to him, there are no compartments anymore, no conflicting desires. Instead there’s a myriad of impossible worlds, things that could have been, possible worlds, things that might be and things that can be. And yet his current situation is one he would have never expected. Expectations other than violence regarding Hannibal Lecter. Funny. 

Will expected (hoped) having survived the fall that Hannibal would be more – tactile, forthcoming, _obvious_. Years of yearning and pining would explode into immediate intimacy. For him being baptized in the cold water of the Atlantic, fate and destiny deciding that the both of them live, meant leaving behind everything that had chained him to the rock named Molly and Walter and FBI while thoughts of Hannibal gnawed at his insides daily. 

They take their time to recover, just enough, in hiding, in plain sight, before they travel again and go to another, more permanent, location. Cleaning each other’s wounds is more intimate than before, now that everything has been brought to light. Every touch is instinctual, deliberate, like animals marking their territory. It’s meant to heal, not to hurt. Gentle fingers on his cheek while warm breath fans his hair. Head bowed in reverence as skin knits itself together. 

Which is fine by Will, it’s what they need, but as soon as they are on the move, have crossed borders and have arrived at their new home, Will thought that something would happen, that their relationship would evolve. But Hannibal is keeping his distance.

During the night, he dreams of two beings – the wendigo, which has haunted him for so long, and his trustful companion, the raven stag, fighting a dragon. When it is finally slayed, they do what reality couldn’t provide – claws slit open its body so that the two beasts may devour its organs. At some point, the darkness around them shimmers and shivers and two men appear above the body of the slain; bloody and naked, _wild_.

II

In their villa by the sea, they both have their own room. Tastefully decorated as to Hannibal’s preferences and design; heavy maroon coloured curtains, a spacious bed with soft linens and every colour matching the décor, like the rest of the house. Every evening Will goes to sleep alone in his huge bed, aching and cold and wishes for Hannibal to join him, contemplating at the same time if he should join Hannibal, if it is appropriate, if it is wanted and all the other implications that follow it. They’re apart even if they’re together now. 

During the day they talk, they eat, they read, they relax, settling into a new routine and a new life slowly. During the night, he stretches across the bed, hugging a pillow to himself, wishing it were the warm body of Hannibal. In his old life he would have hated himself for that train of thought, but now that he’s finally free, fully free, he can‘t bring himself to feel any remorse. Apparently, he is no Orpheus.

Sometimes he touches himself, imagining vividly it is Hannibal’s strong, skilled hand, his lips that could as well be blood stained, travelling Will’s body leisurely, searching for his softest spot, ripping into him to take their pound of flesh. He comes, hoping every time that Hannibal can hear his quiet moans, his shallow breathing, knowing in some corner of his shared mind that Hannibal knows and feels the same. There are other means of influence than violence after all. He waits and waits and waits. For weeks it’s an exercise in patience, while his body mends itself together poorly, craving the heat of another to finally be whole. Over the course of his life, he has accumulated so many scars; he doesn’t care about any new ones anymore. They’ll appear to stay, as they always do. However, he cares what Hannibal will think about them, what he will do when he sees them.

At some point, Will’s patience runs dry. Fed up with the distance, he gets up one night. He may have drunk more wine than necessary beforehand. Wrapped in a warm blanket and nothing more, he traverses the few steps between their rooms, right into Hades itself, rudely opening the door without knocking. Hannibal’s naked back is turned towards him, his branding scar glittering in the pale moonlight that falls in ribbons across his skin.

Will knows that Hannibal is awake because Will entered the room. His animal brain, the instincts he so carefully honed to be the apex predator don’t allow for anything else. He doesn’t move or stir to indicate that he’s awake. Hannibal is waiting like a tiger poised in the bushes. Sighing through his nose, letting off steam, Will walks towards the bed with silent steps and, without any hesitation, crawls into it.

He doesn’t touch Hannibal, doesn’t hug or cuddle up to him. He’s done enough, it’s up to the other man now. He falls asleep to the ocean rolling in the distance, to the sound of Hannibal’s breath and his warmth that radiates across the small space that is still between them. 

III

Hannibal doesn’t mention it the next day, avoids the topic completely and acts as if he’s spent the night on his own. (He was gone when Will woke up.) Will is not sure yet if it is another game or test or something else entirely. Watching Hannibal’s every move from hooded hawk’s eyes, he follows him as he cooks breakfast, lunch and dinner, as he sits in front of his expensive C. Bechstein in between these activities. Will’s finger itch to try it out. He stands in the doorway, unconsciously rubbing his fingertips together, this time hoping for something other than rough flesh touching rough flesh. Hannibal must know, must tease him as he composes with a straight back, nimble fingers and movements that circle from key to sheet to key to sheet.

After a while Will eventually leaves, grinding his teeth, releasing an angry huff from his nostrils like an awakening dragon. The association brings the moonlit night of his becoming to the front of his mind but he doesn’t try to deny its entry. It crashes like a wave against the shores of consciousness, leaves behind fragments of feelings and pictures until the gentle lapping of the water carries it back into the darkness.

Will isn’t lost in it, _to_ it, anymore. The fog is gone and all that remains is a clarity that is clear as crystal. The only concealed mystery is Hannibal’s distance. And his reason for treating Will as a stranger in his house or a ghost that would vanish simply by ignoring it as much as possible.

It’s annoying.

Degrading.

_Unacceptable._

Will is familiar with the heat in his belly, the way his knuckles turn white around the handle of his cup. Righteous anger.

With a bit more force than necessary the sets the cup down on the marble counter. For a second he’s curious if it’s going to break. It doesn’t. And then he turns away to get a change of clothes and go for a run, leaving it there, half full and steaming. He needs to clear his head before the righteous anger in his belly reaches the rest of his body. Before he does something he will regret for the rest of his life. 

In the evening, after he brushed his teeth, washed his face with a stinging shoulder, he lies down next to Hannibal without any comment and with an ease that gives the illusion of having done this a hundred times already. Once again his back is turned towards Will and he gives no indication of turning around.

Will swallows acidic spit and goes to sleep, the sound of the ocean following him in his dreams.

IV

Will’s face is stretching in uncomfortable ways. The scar is healing well, turning from an angry red to a fleshy pink. In time, it will be white. Ragged, uneven, but white. And yet Will’s face is hurting, his whole body is hurting, remembering the fall as if it was yesterday. It’s one of the bad days, where some part of him is also missing everything and everyone he has lost. Days where he spends his noons at the ocean, out at sea, starring into distance, imagining all the dead things washing up to shore until the sun disappears behind the horizon, and returning home without a catch. During these days he’s never angry with Hannibal, merely aching all over.

He doesn’t care about the scars or the way they look. He only ever cared about his appearances as long as they were a means to fit in, to camouflage the fact that he wasn’t normal. Always always pretending. Others choose their clothes, their hair, their glasses, according to their tastes or the tastes of the current trend, trying to look distinguished, totally their own.

Will never had that. Isn’t sure he will ever have that. The only thing he has are his scars, but he didn’t go around flaunting them, doesn’t do it now and won’t do it in the future. Even lovers that used them to set the mood, guided by some misguided passion, received some half-heartened explanation.

But on those days, when he aches that deep buried ache; when his face stings, his shoulder hurts and his leg complains with every step, when he aches from within, he wonders.

He wonders what Hannibal really thinks of them. (Bedelia’s voice echoes in his mind. _It excites him_. But it’s an echo. An echo from someone who knew where to dig and salt the earth. And if it would excite him, wouldn’t he –?) 

He wonders if Hannibal regards them – him – as ugly, defective.

He wonders if they disturb his sense of aesthetics.

He wonders if Hannibal thinks him less because of them. 

It leads him to go one step further, even though he told himself he wouldn’t. Feeling like an exposed nerve will do that to you, he supposes. In bed, he rolls over so that his chest is to Hannibal’s back, their skin only separated by the material of their shirts and gently throws his arms around the other man. Still moving gently he lays his hand over the place Hannibal’s heart beats strongly against his ribcage, against Will’s hand and closes his eyes. No dead things in this bed.

V

_To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose._

"Why are you avoiding me?” Will asks at the breakfast table when he’s metaphorically fed up, no flowery shadowy language. There’s no reason anymore, no barriers that need to be climbed.

Hannibal stops eating for a second anyway, lowering his cutlery before he bows his head. Uncharacteristically shy and devout. The silence stretches on.

When he speaks, it’s with his eyes hidden underneath his brown-silver strands of hair, “I am afraid that if I were to ask too much of you that I will ultimately push you away once more.” The same courtesy returned. His eyes reflect the sincerity of his words, his fears. 

Will resumes eating; quenching the simmering anger with freshly pressed orange juice.

"You’re pushing me away by pushing me away,” he says as a final note on that matter and leaves the table, taking his dirty dishes with him. Hannibal’s turn. He has a garden to tend to, trees to plant, flowers to water. And as Will opens the french doors leading to the their garden and squints against the sunlight, feeling the first prickling of heat, perhaps a pool to plan. It could cool his heated temper, help with the pain in his shoulder. 

The smooth granite stones are comfortably warm underneath his bare feet as he walks along the path, inspecting the flowers, stopping to smell the roses. Eventually he gets to work, carries the newly acquired young plum tree in one hand, a shovel in the other.

The manual task becomes meditative. He forgets about Hannibal for a while, about their fight. The garden is all there is: digging a hole, planting the tree, throwing the soil back in, stepping on it for density and dashing it with water. In the end, Will wipes the sweat from his brow and his neck, smiles proudly at his work. And repeats the procedure with the orange tree.

Working with his hands had always given him peace and pleasure.

When he’s finished, his minds provides him images of the future: the trees are big and strong, carrying ripe fruit, all casting a shadow in the hot summer sun, ready for picking, their fragrance rich. He can imagine juice running down his chin when biting into them. 

Hannibal embraces him that night. As soon as Will joins him in bed, he turns around. One arm slings around his waist, pressing their bodies together, making it possible for him to turn his nose into Will’s hair. His other hand is cradling Will’s head, his thumb tracing the shell of Will’s ear, down to the scar, rubbing the raised tissue there.

Hannibal body relaxes in a way it hasn’t in a while, his breathing more even than before. Will feels the same. The hurt in his face disappears as _every_ muscle in his body relaxes.

VI

The day begins tense already. When Will wakes up, Hannibal is still in bed, plastered across his back. Will can feel the knobs of Hannibal’s knees in his back, his breath like a warm breeze on his neck, his arms caging him. He feels safe like that, warm, loved. Will keeps his eyes closed, enjoying the moment, gathering courage but -

Before he can turn around, watch Hannibal, maybe talk to him in hushed tones and capture the moment like a fresh oil painting, the other man sighs through his nose and moves. Away from Will and away from the bed. Will watches him leave and wonders what made _Hannibal Lecter_ so nervous.

The rest of the day is one of those days where time works in strange ways, either too slow or too fast. One moment to the next it seems to jump while other moments seem suspended in amber.

During the evening, they have a discussion about their future plans. The conversation is strained with underlying tension, coming from Hannibal and jumping over to Will. A shame. He usually enjoys what Hannibal cooks, but he can’t with his stomach in knots and his head worrying. Will tries to weasel information out of Hannibal, but he’s tight lipped, not even speaking in metaphors.

Will retires first, too worked up by whatever is going in Hannibal’s head to relax in his company. He bathes instead, soothing his nerves with warm water and bubbles.

It’s been a while since he went to bed before or without Hannibal.

He wakes to Hannibal settling in behind him. In his semi-conscious state he turns around, seeking his embrace, the beating of his heart. He’s not aware of how close they are, how intertwined. And how could he? More asleep than awake as he is. Will doesn’t realise how he tightly he curls against the other man, his face is nuzzled underneath the hollow of his chin, so close to his neck, his lips ghosting over vulnerable skin.

Will only fully rouses when a shuddering gasp, a long exhale ripples through the body to which he attached himself to. Blinking he opens his eyes, has them travelling upwards until they find another pair staring at him.

“ _Will_ …,”Hannibal murmurs so quietly it’s barely audible. 

Back then Will hadn’t said what was on his mind. Nevertheless, Hannibal _must have known_.

He doesn’t say what’s on his mind now, doesn’t need to, merely kisses the skin available to him, feeling Hannibal’s racing pulse underneath his lips and smiles. Smiles as he’s hold so tightly he nearly suffocates. 

VII

Once again, Will is the one to take it one step further in their strange little dance.

More more more, _always_.

Lying in bed that night, the moon chasing away the shadows, he looks at Hannibal, whispers his name to get his attention. Brown eyes are immediately upon him imploringly. Keeping him close, Will breaches the distance, feels Hannibal’s breath on his face first and then the soft flesh of his lips. Hannibal’s arms tighten around him like a vice, a sound escaping his closed lips. A sound resembling a wounded animal.

The strength with which he gathers Will in his arms and sits up suggests the opposite. The sheets pool around them. Although Will can feel the urgency in Hannibal’s touch, the other man is slow, almost reverent, in the way he looks up at Will illuminated by the moonlight.

In the way his hand traces along his flank, leaving goose bumps in their wake.

In the way he lifts Will flimsy shirt and exposes him to the night, to his hungry eyes.

“Will – you,” he almost sobs and buries his head in Will’s neck, his nose tracing along his jaw, his neck, smelling him, his arousal.

Will is helpless to the shudders wrecking his body, the hot waves rolling from head to toe. He can feel sweat gathering underneath his armpits, on the small of his back, is hypersensitive to Hannibal’s wandering hands. He wants the same, takes Hannibal’s t-shirt and throws it-- somewhere. He doesn’t care. Then he holds on tightly, his arms wound around Hannibal’s shoulders and copies Hannibal in the way he buries his head in the other man’s neck.

“Can I – ?” Hannibal asks hoarsely, unfounded. Of course, of course. As if Will would deny him. Will nods. And moans, another hot wave crashing through his body, as Hannibal cups his aching cock and gives a first tentative tug.

Will worlds narrows down to the heat between his legs, Hannibal’s hand lightly starting a rhythm, while he rapidly breathes against Will’s ear. Someone’s moaning, almost wailing. It takes him a second to realise that he’s the one doing that noise, that his thighs are caging the man beneath him, unwilling to let go, that’s he’s biting Hannibal’s shoulder to smother the sounds coming out of his mouth.

“Will, _Will_ , let me –” Hannibal begs, strokes his unoccupied hand through Will’s hair (a gesture so familiar from another life). Will lets go, his teeth leaving a mark shining with saliva and swallows as Hannibal guides his head back until they can lock eyes.

“Let me _see_ you.”

His plea his accompanied by another, harsher, stroke which has Will keening, supporting his weight with hands that claw into Hannibal’s chest, fingers that scratch through the hair there. He starts thrusting into Hannibal’s closed fist, meeting his every stroke, looking at him, sharing their curling shaking exhales and inhales in the air between them.

It’s overwhelming. Nothing, _nothing_ , has ever felt so good, so natural.

“Hannibal I-,” he stammers, reduced to cinders just like the other half of his soul.

The pressure lessens. Before Will can complain, Hannibal hushes, “I’ve got you,” and lays him down on the bed, sits back, taking Will’s pyjamas with him. Will watches with joyful anticipation as he gets a small tube from his bedside cabinet.

Like a great beast, ready to devour its prey, he hovers above Will. Closes his eyes, inhales their combined scents and descents to claim Will’s lip in a dance of tongue and teeth, licking into him with vigour, getting a taste for what’s his. Has always been his from the moment he laid eyes on Will Graham. He smears kisses along Will’s scar, down his neck, sucking the delicate skin there to hear Will’s breathless moans, while his fingers work their way into Will’s willing body patiently, tenderly, prepare him until Will is a heaving mess, coiled tight.

“ _Please,_ ” he rasps, ready to burst into flames.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Hannibal hums against his ear.

Another thrust, hitting the right spot, and Will swears that the stars he can see from his position are crashing down. It’s too much. Not enough.

He begs again, thighs bracketing Hannibal, pushing him down, hands pawing at his ass and is rewarded. Hannibal glides into him smoothly, groaning. The sound reverberates through them both, has Will’s dick jerking against his belly.

It feels like Hannibal tries to bury his very being inside Will, as he starts rolling his hips, melting them into one, attached from head to toe, barely any space between them. 

VIII

The nightmares turn to dreams.

Light is shining through the Norman Chapel in Palermo, Will’s head turned towards it, receiving communion.

He knows, feels, Hannibal beside him, heavenly silence between them. Nothing must be said in this shared space of theirs. 

IX

It’s bliss.

Hannibal allows himself to hold on and it puts them on even ground. Will can kiss him whenever he wants, can wind his arms around him while he prepares the food and receive the same treatment in return – a kiss to his head when he digs in the garden, a hand around his waist as he drinks his coffee watching the sea.

They’re dancing to the same rhythm, especially when they’re in bed. It’s a give and take. Sometimes Will isn’t able to distinguish between the two of them, where one ends and another begins. It’s perfectly fine with him.

Will wakes up to a warm bed, a warm body pressed against him, kisses along his shoulder, kissing along a shoulder, tracing scars.

He can leave a path of kisses, lips tracing the body of the man he desires, down down down south until he can pull him into his mouth, tease him with more than kisses. He’s just as insatiable as Hannibal, enjoys taking his time, making the other man beg, making a home inside of him. 

He plays the piano, playing the song Hannibal is composing and adding his own thoughts without writing them down, more feeling than control to his actions. Sometimes Hannibal joins him, sitting next to him with closed eyes, sometimes playing with him, their fingers composing duets out of thin air.

A few days later Hannibal lets him see how he creates a certain dish, how he takes notes in fine print, how he googles Bedelia Du Maurier. Will doesn’t say anything, there is no need to. He kisses Hannibal’s forehead lightly and walks out into the garden, greeting the deliveryman in Spanish. 

X

One night after their coupling, as Will rests his head on Hannibal’s chest, right above his heart, he breaches the subject of the bounty on their head. Earlier in the day he browsed the news just to be sure. Good thing he did. Someone, surely Jack, has declared them missing instead of dead. It’s a problem. And an opportunity. Still, it makes Will uneasy. He’s interested to know what Hannibal thinks. 

"Don’t worry, Will. I won’t leave your side and I won’t be killed unless by your hand.”

Will jerks back, stares with eyes wide open, his heart racing, like it has raced when killing the dragon. But this time it’s not because of the hunt, the thrill.

"Why would you say that? I don’t have _any_ intention of killing you.”

His voice borders on a growl, his face contorting into an ugly grimace.

Benevolent, nearly melancholic, Hannibal smiles, “You will, my dear. I know my end and it is by your hand. Don’t look like that. It reassures me.”

"I won’t. _I - won’t,_ ” Will speaks fiercely. He’s angry. And hurt. And afraid. He never knew himself as well as when he’s with Hannibal. But to Hannibal he’s unpredictable.

The hand that brings him pleasure and pain is lazily stroking across his back, fingertips smooth like water, gliding across his skin in circles, unwavering.

Will had tossed his coin and fate had swept them back to shore; gave them back to the earth to plant their roots. He holds on tighter, tighter than he did at the clifftop.

_The river is within us, the sea is all about us;  
The sea is the land's edge also, the granite  
Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses  
Its hints of earlier and other creation:  
The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale's backbone;  
The pools where it offers to our curiosity  
The more delicate algae and the sea anemone.  
It tosses up our losses, the torn seine,  
The shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar  
And the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices,  
Many gods and many voices_

_The Dry Salvages, T.S.Eliot_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Feedback always appreciated. If you find any mistakes, feel free to point them out. Thanks.  
> [tumblr](https://furoremswritings.tumblr.com/)


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